Kiss And Blog (7 page)

“Oh, sorry, I only got two coffees, I didn’t know you were coming,” I say, smiling even wider for Claire’s benefit and shrugging apologetically.

But she just shakes her head and waves it away. And then, gaping at my scone with her eyes practically bugged-out of their sockets, she goes, “Omigod! Don’t tell me you’re really gonna eat all that? That’s like a trillion calories, not to mention all the fat grams and carbs!”

I gaze down at my scone, curious to see if maybe it’s tripled in size since I last looked at it, but it looks pretty much the same to me. Then I glance at Claire’s face, noticing how it’s all scrunched up and judgmental, like she just smelled something truly awful and suspects I’m to blame. “Well, usually Sloane and I split it,” I finally say, feeling totally ridiculous for having to defend my breakfast.

Claire gapes at Sloane, while Sloane rolls her eyes at me, and goes, “Please. I’m
so
off the carbs. One more bite of anything and I’ll totally explode out of these jeans!”

I look at Sloane, watching as she pats her perfectly flat belly, feeling pretty awful and depressed to hear her say something as stupid as that. Because the truth is she looks amazing in her stovepipe Earnest Sewn jeans, striped T-shirt, and little ballet flats. I mean, she looks just like that picture of Sienna Miller she ripped out of
InStyle
and hung on her wall. And even though I know how a lot of girls like to whine about imaginary cellulite and pockets of fat that don’t even exist, seeing Sloane acting like that is really starting to freak me out.

It’s also making me wonder if maybe I only wanted to be popular in a theoretical way, but not in a real way. Like, I had fun with all the planning and shopping and decorating but now that it’s time for the big move, I’m suddenly realizing that I might not actually want to live there. Because if this is what’s required of us, phony smiling ‘til our faces ache, avoiding food
while our stomachs growl, and putting aside all of our opinions just so we can pretend to like and dislike the exact same things as everybody else—well, it’s starting to feel like way too high of a price. It’s starting to feel like the ultimate sellout.

But since I can’t exactly say that, much less ignore the ominous look Sloane is giving me, I just break off a miniscule piece of scone, pop it in my mouth, and throw the rest away. Wondering how on earth I can possibly make it to lunch without fainting from hunger.

During the ten-minute break, Sloane shows up with Claire again. And by lunch I can hardly believe it when we’re promoted to Table A. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we’re sitting in the center, or anywhere near the top (which is the absolute most coveted spot because then practically the whole school can see you), but we’re definitely securely perched on the far outermost edge. And even though I don’t really say anything, and even though nobody says anything to me, and even though I don’t really like anyone here (other than Sloane), I gotta admit, it still feels pretty amazing.

After school we’re all (and by all I mean, me, Sloane, Jaci, Holly, and Claire), standing in the school parking lot, talking and laughing while waiting for our rides when Cash Davis strolls by.

And the second he’s out of earshot, Jaci puts her hand over her heart and goes, “Omigod, have you ever seen a more perfect specimen?”

And then Holly and Claire immediately agree and mumble something about his rock-hard ass and major tight abs. And then Sloane looks at me, who up until now, everyone has pretty much been trying to ignore, and goes, “Well, you guys, Winter actually
talked
to him.”

They all stare at me, their faces bearing a skepticism that’s impossible to miss.

”Seriously.” She nudges me in the arm.
“Tell
them.”

I glance at Sloane, wishing she wouldn’t do this, even though I know she’s only trying to help, and then I look at everyone else and sigh. “It was nothing,” I say, trying to affect what I hope comes off as a jaded, world-weary demeanor. “So not a big deal.”

“Oh, please,” Sloane says, nudging me even harder this time. “Tell them how he picked up your books and stuff.”

She’s smiling, but her eyes are cold and hard, warning me not to say something stupid, begging me not to blow this. And just as I open my mouth so I can resurrect my lie about Cash bumping into me, Jaci, rolls her eyes, stifles a yawn, and goes, “Uh, excuse me; but the last time I saw you anywhere
near
Cash Davis was when you were freaked-out and covered in head-to- toe smoothie. So, whatever. Anyway, my ride’s here. So kiss-kiss, everyone!”

I just stand there, unable to speak, as I watch Jaci, Holly, and Claire trot off toward their “ride,” which is actually just Jaci’s angry-looking mom, hunched behind the wheel of her highly accessorized black Range Rover, yelling into her cell phone.

“What the hell? How come you never mentioned that to me?” Sloane asks, looking pretty angry just as her own mom pulls up in her shiny, new Lexus.

I just look at her, nervously dangling my backpack from two, outstretched fingers, and wondering how I’m going to explain this. Then finally I take a deep breath and say, “Well, I started to, but-” But then I just stop and shrug, suddenly unwilling to finish my own sentence. I mean, I really don’t like the way this is starting to feel. And I really don’t like how, lately, I always have to defend just about everything I say and do around her.

But Sloane just exhales loudly and gives me this totally annoyed look. “Well, are you coming or not?” she asks, opening the car door, not even trying to hide her frustration.

And even though it would be nice to get a ride home, the last thing I need is to be in a confined space with her and her disapproving mom. So I just shake my head and watch as she climbs inside.

And just as I start to walk away Sloane slides down her window, hangs her head out, and goes, “Kiss-kiss!”

And I smile as I turn to face her, knowing she’s trying to make up for all the tension by totally making fun of Jaci, just like we used to, before we were trying so hard to be her friend. But when my eyes meet hers, I realize she’s serious. And I remain on the curb, staring after the Lexus, until I can no longer see them.

On Friday nights I usually work in the café. Which basically means that my mom is totally taking advantage of my nonexistent social life, as well as possibly flaunting some very serious child labor laws. Sometimes, I even go so far as to wonder if she’s intentionally sabotaging Autumn and me, determined to raise two social retards with no life, just so she can save on overhead.

Not that Autumn’s a social retard. I mean, to me she may be a major dork, but ever since learning about little Crosby Davis’s crush on her, I’m starting to realize that other people don’t necessarily view her in quite the same way.

I pour two Strawberry Fields smoothies into two tall glasses, reminiscing about the time when I changed all the names, updating the signs to reflect more current titles to songs that people actually listen to. Like, “Don’t Phunk With My Heart Tart,” “Crumbs From Your Table Crumble,” and my very own personal favorite, “As Ugly As I Seem Smoothie.” But needless to say, my mom was not amused. And by the very next day everything was back to normal again.

After delivering the smoothies, I head to the back, where I grab two totally overstuffed and very heavy trash bags, which I
proceed to half drag and half carry all the way outside to the Dumpster, totally cringing when I see the unmistakable red glow of skinny dude’s cigarette, bobbing in the dark, at the end of the alley.

“Nice out,” he says, taking another drag as he approaches, nodding at me like we’ve been hanging out and chatting for years.

“Yup,” I say, struggling to heave one of the mammoth bags into the bin and failing miserably.

“Here, let me get that.” He clamps his cigarette between his lips and lifts the bag with surprising ease for someone with no visible muscle tone. “So how’s school treatin’ ya?” he asks, reaching for the other bag and tossing it in as well. “Learning anything?”

“Not really.” I say, feeling anxious to get back inside and far away from him.

“What grade ya in, ninth?”

“Tenth,” I say, feeling totally offended he thought I was a freshman.

“Yeah, well, they don’t really teach you anything ‘til college.” He nods, blowing two perfect smoke rings, and watching as they dissolve into the night.

“You went to college?” I ask, immediately regretting the amount of surprise in my voice, but still, I didn’t expect to hear that.

“ ‘Course I went to college,” he says, shaking his head at me. “What? You think I’m some philistine lowlife, working in a liquor store?”

“Um, no, absolutely not,” I say, gazing toward our back door, longing to be on the other side of it.

But he just throws down his cigarette, smashing the smoldering tip under the sole of his old, beat-up Doc Marten. “I thought you were different from all those other spoiled brats,” he says, shaking his head at me. “But apparently you’re just like the rest of them.”

And as he shakes his head, mutters under his breath, and heads back down the alley, part of me feels kind of bad about all that. While the other part really hopes that he’s right.

When I go back inside, I wash my hands, then head straight for Mr. and Mrs. Strawberry Fields smoothie. “All done?” I ask, grabbing their sticky glasses, and wiping up the mess they made with an old, damp rag.

And then, for some inexplicable reason, like some kind of ESP moment or something, I happen to look up and gaze out the window, at the exact same moment that Jaci, Holly, Claire, and
Sloane
walk by.

Oh, my God!
I think, as I stand there, staring at Sloane, waiting for her to peer inside and wave at me. I mean, she knows I work every Friday night, so why else would they be here?

But just as I’m wondering if my mom will let me leave early so I can go hang out with them, I watch in shock as she just breezes right by. With absolutely no intention of stopping, waving, or giving any indication that she’s in any way affiliated with New Day Organics, or me.

She just laughs at something Jaci said, tosses her hair behind her shoulder, and strolls right past, without so much as a single glance.

“Ahem, excuse me? Miss? I said we’d like two cups of the Let It Be green tea.”

I glance at the woman who is now rolling her eyes and shaking her head, then I gaze out the window again. Watching Sloane laugh and joke with her cool new friends with such comfort and ease, it’s like she’s been hanging with them forever.

Six

On Saturday morning I call Sloane. And when she doesn’t answer her cell, I call the house line.

“Yes?” the maid answers in tentative English.

“Hi, um, is Sloane there?” I ask, hoping she can understand me.

“Yes?” she says again, leaving me unsure if that’s “yes, she’s there,” or if we’re actually, like, starting this whole process all over again.

So this time I rephrase it. “Can I speak to Sloane, please?”

“No.” Of this, she sounds certain.

“Okay, but does that mean that she’s there but busy and therefore I can’t speak to her? Or that she’s not home so I can’t speak to her?” I ask, realizing that even I’m a little confused by all that.

But then she goes, “Sloane very busy. She studies. With coach.”

And while I’m trying to figure out what the heck that means, she hangs up.

And I just sit there, phone still in hand, thinking:
Sloane is studying with a coach? Does that mean she has a tutor’? And why didn’t she mention this before? I mean, usually I’m the one who helps her with her homework.

And then like, the second I hang up, it rings. And since I know that it’s Sloane, I go, “Hey, so what’s with the coach? I mean, we’re supposed to be practicing our cheer.”

And then my dad goes, “Okay, but I lost my pom-poms so we’ll have to share.”

I roll my eyes, and laugh. “Very funny,” I say. “I thought you were Sloane.”

“Obviously. So what’s this about a cheer? You trying out for the squad?”

“Yup.” I plop down onto the couch, put my feet on the coffee table, and grab the remote.

“Does your mom know?”

“Affirmative.” I nod, even though he can’t exactly see me.

“Wow, how’d you get that past her?” He says that in a funny way, not a judgmental way. Like in a “you and I both know how she feels about the establishment and cheerleaders definitely fall into that disdainful group” kinda way.

But I just laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say, channel-surfing past all kinds of shows I don’t really like.

“So, when are you and Autumn coming to visit?” he asks.

I drop the remote, even though its last stop was some over- the-top religious show, and wonder how I’m gonna answer this. I mean, I like my dad, don’t get me wrong, and he’s actually more like a friend than a dad. You know, kind of cute and irresponsible but highly likable, kind of like Rory Gilmore’s dad. And he’s cool too, with the whole rock star thing and all. But ever since he moved to New York, visiting him is like a total hassle, involving a long-ass flight, and sleeping in a cramped
apartment, which can get more than a little awkward when one of his revolving girlfriends decides to drop in and pay him a visit.

But I don’t want to tell him all that and make him feel bad, so instead I just say, “I don’t know, I guess we’ll just see how it goes, you know.” Then I gawk at the screen showing the flamboyant preacher in the sparkly, yellow suit, standing next to his God-fearing wife with the lavender hair, dress, and shoes.

“Okay, but I’m warning you, I already bought two tickets, with open dates on each end, and I’ve mailed them out so they should be there by Monday. Tuesday at the latest,” he says.

I just mumble good-bye and close the phone, my eyes glued to the line of converts falling to the ground, writhing in ecstasy, as the preacher taps each of their foreheads, absolving them of sin and saving their souls, while his color-coordinated wife smiles beatifically beside him.

At four o’clock I go to Sloane’s. I mean, I’d wasted my entire day calling every two hours, and either listening to her cell go straight to voice mail, or getting the run-around from the maid. And the truth is, you just can’t practice a two-person cheer with only one person. Not to mention that she still has all the words, which left me in the very awkward position of winging it.